Dante was pacing outside the emergency room like a caged animal, his agitation radiating off him in waves.
His voice cut through the air, sharp and relentless.
"Isabella, now is not the time for a fight! We were together for six years, and Carina is your goddamn cousin! Of course I know your blood type."
I remained silent, my body feeling like it might collapse at any moment.
I had just had an abortion. I was still bleeding.
And here he was, demanding I donate blood for his mistress.
Not only was the surgery physically draining, but the Rh-negative bloodline in the Falcone family was dangerously thin.
Donating blood now would be dangerous—it would be risky even in perfect health.
Besides, why should I risk my life for a man like this?
Hadn't Dante considered the consequences when he brought his mistress onto Falcone turf?
Everyone knew we were engaged. The Falcone-Moretti union was supposed to reshape the landscape of New York City's underworld.
And yet, for the sake of my cousin, he had dragged the honor of both our families through the mud.
"I just had an abortion," I said calmly.
"I can't donate blood. Find someone else."
Dante's anger flared, his words scorching.
"Isabella! You always said you loved me. Now I'm just asking for a little of your blood, and you're using an abortion as an excuse? This is the real you. You'd rather let Carina die than lift a finger to help. I can't believe I ever loved someone so cold and heartless."
His accusation struck me like a physical blow.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he had never loved me.
Because if he had, he wouldn't have faked an illness to cheat on me.
He wouldn't have ignored the deep exhaustion on my face and tried to force me to give blood for his mistress.
And he certainly wouldn't have slept with my cousin.
A harsh alarm blared from a nearby monitor, breaking the tense standoff.
A team of ER doctors wheeled Carina into an operating room.
In a fit of sheer frustration, Dante threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and hauled me toward the blood donation area.
"Isabella, whether you like it or not, I'll owe you for this," he said gruffly.
"Hell, if it makes you happy, I'll even marry you on our original date."
This was the future Don of the Moretti family—cold, reckless, and willing to do anything to get his way.
I stopped fighting.
So be it. This would settle an old debt.
He’d taken a bullet for me once, during an ambush by a rival family. This blood would make us even.
As the crimson blood flowed into the bag, a chill seeped into my bones.
After the donation, Dante rushed after the nurse toward the operating room without so much as a glance in my direction.
As his back disappeared down the hall, I whispered to the empty space, "Now, we're even, Dante."
Later, I woke up in a hospital bed, exhaustion weighing on me like lead.
The doctor's voice cut through the haze.
"You can't donate blood again for at least six months," the doctor said sternly. "If you try, it could kill you."
I nodded weakly, a faint, detached smile on my lips.
After he left, I checked my phone.
The hospital had made over a dozen calls to Dante's emergency contact number.
None had been answered.
Instead, there was a single text from Dante.
Dante: Stop playing the victim, Isabella. It's time you learned your place.
I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity.
In that moment, the last vestiges of warmth I held for him froze solid.
I couldn't reconcile the man I once loved with the monster behind these venomous words.
I didn't reply. I spent the next few days recovering in silence.
When I finally felt better, I dragged myself to the hospital garden, hoping the sun might melt the ice inside me.
My path was blocked by a group of Dante’s men, their arms laden with bouquets and fruit baskets. For one stupid, hopeful second, I thought they were for me.
I turned to leave, but they blocked my way, their taunts like sharp barbs.
"Well, look who it is. The great Falcone Principessa. Dante's got a new girl, and you're still here playing the victim? Pathetic."
"Isn't this a bit much? Just a little blood donation, and she's acting this weak. What a drama queen."
"Looks like even the Principessa can't keep her man. Got played by her own cousin. Fucking hilarious."
Their words stung, but I steadied myself and glared back at them.
"Don't you forget, the Falcone name carries weight the Morettis can only dream of. Say one more word, and I'll drag Dante's name through the gutter right alongside yours."
They froze, momentarily speechless.
Before they could retort, Dante emerged from the stairwell.
His gaze fell on me, his brow furrowed with irritation.
"Isabella, really? You have to pick a fight with my men?"
His tone grew colder, each word suffocating.
"I already said I'd marry you. What more do you want? Stop faking sickness to spy on me. If you pull this shit after we're married, it won't look good for either of our families."
